


Dust, Blood, and Cowboy Boots

by Holy_Moly_Batman



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action mystery, Based off of cannon, not that theres alot of that heyo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25354492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holy_Moly_Batman/pseuds/Holy_Moly_Batman
Summary: Not six months after the fall of Overwatch, Jesse Mccree finds himself in what can only be described as ‘the wrong place at the wrong time’, this wrong place being a diner out in the middle of the desert, and the wrong time being after ten murders had been committed, all of which he had nothing to do with.
Kudos: 2





	Dust, Blood, and Cowboy Boots

In the middle of the desert, square on the side of a long empty road, was a diner with a half blown open hole in its side, widows shattered or filled with bullet holes, and some ten bodies slumped and soaking in their own blood baths. One, a man in suit and tie, the obvious target of the attack with a gracious single bullet between his eyes. Two, workers both a chef and waitress, the chefs head had been nicely sizzling against the open stove and the waitress’s skull bashed in with an aluminum chair. Three, a family whose stomachs had been spilled across the checkered floor. And four, a glorious quartet of money wasted on useless body guards with a pile of useless guns hanging from their hands.

In the middle of the crimson painting stood Jesse Mccree. A self proclaimed upholder of the law who despite what it looked like to the police who had nicely parked their siren blazing cars outside, guns at the ready, ironically had nothing to do with any of the aforementioned murders. In fact Jesse had arrived not moments ago at the road stop for a burger only to find the mess and be framed for it. More money to be added to his bounty he guessed, as he had no intention of being charged with a shoot-up he definitely did not commit.

“Turn around! Hands in the air.” The pigs yelled from behind their steel horses. Jesse also had no intention of being shot today and already devised a simple plan for his escape, a slow turn around with his hands raised and a quick tumble and jump over to the cover of the counter where he would dash to the back exit. He’d done it a thousand times while working for the recently shut down Overwatch, and he was able to pull it off flawlessly now. Now crouch-running behind the tacky counter, bullets flying through the air, some managing to hit the already dead bodies somehow, making soft “spitsh” noises as they collided with the old sacks of flesh. The ruckus allowed Jesse to burst out the backdoor and thank the heavens for the police’s stormtrooper aim that kept him, and his hat which poked above the counter as he ran, intact.

To make his clean get away he’d have to steal a dead mans vehicle which didn’t sit to fondly with him and brought his mind back to before his sweet life working for Overwatch, to when he and his best friend ran some cheap gang together. Hell, he hoped she wasn’t too mad that he hadn’t written her in several years.

Jesse hopped on the back of some tattered old bike and fiddled annoyedly with the keyhole till it buzzed to life and lifted off the ground. Seemed to be an older model, likely from the early 2050’s, and if it was still kept around for this long high chances it was modded. He revved the engine and he could’ve sworn flames spat out the duel exhausts. He quickly turned the bike to the open desert, and it couldn’t have come sooner as the cops had wised up and driven back around to greet him.

As one of the opposing vehicles came careening towards him, Jesse pulled up on the bikes steering just enough for it to glide over the car and past the rush-job barricade. His elaborate chase began, the cops tailing him closely, allowing him to drive them into assorted desert cacti and the occasional withered tree. It wasn’t long till only two cars remained, the officers sitting shotgun yelling madly into their radios for backup that, without a proper location, would never make it in time to catch Jesse, or save the officers themselves from his clever driving.

Jesse came to an abrupt stop, the bikes breaks being far better than the police’s who drove roughly three meters too far ahead of him. Just enough range for him to pull out his peacekeeper and shoot out their back stabilizers, causing the vehicles back-bumpers to slump into the dirt. Mccree took this chance to speed past them to freedom, leaving them in a dusty cloud of his creation.

The cowboy drove for roughly an hour and a half more before he came to an abandoned shack that looked to have been built some fifty years before his birth. He didn’t even bother to hide the bike too well, leaving it next to a tall and ancient wooden windmill. Mccree trotted inside and took a healthy serving of seat on a molded green sofa with dusty ripped cushions. He leaned back and propped his spurred leather boots on the opposite end of the couch, tipping his hat over to cover more of his face.

He needed to think.

The man in the diner with the clean hole in his face he had recognized from an old Blackwatch list of Talon associates. His name was Jeremy Doch, he ran a massive ring of experimental drugs, mostly physiology-altering steroids, things that would permanently ruin your body and all for a five percent chance at muscles big enough to lift cars one handed. Mccree had found out about the car thing first hand when one came at him during one of their busts. Jesse could tell that from the casual dress of Jeremys guards he expected the hit put on him and expected he’d need extra muscle, secret muscle, when his trade went down he knew he’d be attacked and knew his best chance was to spring a trap on his attackers.

Mccree figured it was a deal gone sour by the mass of bodyguards, and the bloodmarks left on the ground as if something much like a briefcase had been lifted out of blood and set down somewhere where the attacker could make sure it wasn’t taken, the middle of the diner where Mccree had stood to observe the mess. He assumed that the assailant had sat at the booth with Jeremy and shot him then, his wound and the blood spatter both directing across from him. Whoever the person was, after shooting Jeremy, had made their way across the diner in a linear fashion which led to the family being shot instead of them. While standing there, his boots slightly dirtied, Mccree had looked down and noticed blood splattered across the briefcases general area, meaning the attacker had been shot once or twice and knowing that there had been no helicopter or plane pick up for them, clear skies today he would’ve seen it, they would be in the nearest city for their pick up. And they’d be easy enough to spot with a shot up leg.

Of course this was none of his business, he wasn’t apart of Overwatch anymore, and he lost so many people because of their heroics that he’d be wasting his time and endangering himself by trying to solve this mystery. But. Mccree had a squad sized hole in his heart, his squad leader Reyes was dead, Shimada had gone off hell knows where, and the doctor, well he didn’t really miss her but he still did wonder where she got off to now a-days. Filling that hole with some stupid mystery was all he could think about doing, even as he stepped out of the shaded shack, mounted the stolen bike, and drove back to the road he had been chased off by the police.

News had arrived by that time and so had the setting sun. The approaching dark covering him just enough to sneak close as to hear the end of the officers conversations with one another. They mentioned Mccree but also another vehicle that the cameras had picked up leaving a mere thirty minutes before he had arrived. The vehicle, an armoured black van with tinted windows hadn’t even parked for the duration of the deal, dropping off and picking up a woman who had returned to the van with a large metal briefcase. The car then turned to the diners left and drove off towards Austin, the capital of the state.

Mccree didn’t dawdle much longer, speeding off fast as he could towards the lively city. His bike pulling away from the myriad of new and police, Mccree turned up the music and celebrated his first lead.


End file.
